


Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves

by Fortylinestare



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All you need is love da da da da da, Angst, F/M, Isolation, Poetry, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Unhappy Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:49:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fortylinestare/pseuds/Fortylinestare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ballad

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about two years ago and posted it on fanfiction, then got all self-conscious, decided it wasn't good enough and took it down.  
> Good or bad, though, it's a part of my writing and I'm ready to give it another chance.  
> Please forgive any errors or inconsistencies. This is old-school stuff. 
> 
>  
> 
> This is a story about love and life, death and sacrifice, inspired by Oscar Wilde’s poem, “The Ballad Of Reading Gaol”.  
> The story is set in 6th year, with previous years canon. Sorry it’s a little angsty. 
> 
> /disclaimer I do not own anything in the world of Harry Potter, nor do I own the Ballad. It's the joint genius of JK Rowling and Oscar Wilde.

Each Man Kills The Thing He Loves   
by Oscar Wilde 

 

Yet each man kills the thing he loves    
By each let this be heard,   
Some do it with a bitter look,    
Some with a flattering word,   
The coward does it with a kiss,    
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,    
And some when they are old;   
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,    
Some with the hands of Gold:   
The kindest use a knife, because    
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,    
Some sell, and others buy;   
Some do the deed with many tears,    
And some without a sigh:   
For each man kills the thing he loves,    
Yet each man does not die.


	2. Souls in Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my, so angsty.

He sat in the very back of the cool, dank dungeon, shivering slightly despite the folds of black cloaking him. He pulled them more tightly around him, trying to warm himself, but the thin fabric did nothing. 

The cold that he felt was inside of him, where he had no cloaks to warm him, no flames to ease the chill. The fire in his heart had gone out months ago, leaving him to freeze inside. 

As his professor paced in front of the class, ranting about the importance of accurate slug dissection, Harry’s thoughts wandered. He’d been back at Hogwarts now for three months. Three long months of solitude. 

After the events of the year before, after the battle at the Ministry, he had made the decision to cut himself off from his friends completely. All summer long, he had studiously ignored their owls and had even hidden beneath the cloak when they came to visit Privet Drive late one night, desperate to see if he was still alive. 

Eventually, they had realised that he did not want to see them. But it was months before the owls stopped arriving from the Order and from his friends. 

He did not blame them for taking so long to figure it out. It wasn’t stupidity that blinded them to the reality of what Harry was doing – it was sheer disbelief. They could not believe that he would truly drive them out, that he would turn his back on them after all they had been through together.   
Especially Ron and Hermione. They had been the last to stop writing, the last to give up hope. 

But finally, even they had given in. In the end, they had decided that he needed some time alone, to ‘figure things out’. They had been certain that he would not hide from them forever. 

But when the first of September came and Harry had walked past them on the platform as if they did not exist, they had no choice but to accept that he truly did not want to talk to them. They had to accept that he was no longer their friend. 

Even now, they stared at him whenever he was near them. Ron had looked at him at first with the gaze of a wounded, abandoned puppy, which had gradually changed to one of betrayal and hurt, as his pain turned to bitter anger. Neville watched with sadness and confusion, as if he could not understand what he had done to hurt Harry, and Hermione, sweet, shrewd Hermione, watched with troubled concern. 

It was her gaze Harry avoided most, for though it broke his heart to see his best friend’s loathing and Neville’s naïve uncertainty, he feared that Hermione would be the one to see through his disguise, the one to understand why he was acting the way he was. 

He did not hate his friends. He loved them, maybe more than any of them realised. That was why he had to do this – why he had to drive them away. Harry knew that being loved by him was like taking aconite – certain to cause a painful death. 

Everyone he loved died in the end. 

First, it had been his parents, who had posed no real threat to Voldemort themselves. They had died to protect him. If it hadn’t been for Harry and for that stupid prophecy, they would not have died that night. Their deaths had been his fault. 

Then there was Cedric, who had lost his life because of a trap laid for Harry. He too had been innocent, guilty of nothing more than trying to do his father proud. Once again, because of Harry’s failed attempt at nobility, at heroism, an innocent person had died. 

His parents, Cedric, Sirius… they had died and it had been Harry’s fault. 

But he would not let it happen again – he would not allow any more deaths to his name. He would save the ones he loved, even if that meant that he could never see them again. 

They had been hurt by his behaviour, he could see that, but it was far better that they be hurt now, than to one day lose their lives for loving him. 

At the Ministry, they had come close, too close, to death. How could he have been so stupid as to think that a group of fourth year wizards could hold off fully trained Death Eaters? Dumbledore’s Army? He had led them on a suicide mission. It was luck – pure luck – that they had come out of it alive. 

Luck, and Sirius Black, who had paid the ultimate price for their survival. 

So now, Harry Potter was alone. A part of him wondered whether he hadn’t always been alone, somehow. Truly lonely for the first 11 years of his life, he found he had even been alone at Hogwarts, isolated because of the burden of fame, the weight of his past and the responsibility that had been given to him alone – the responsibility of saving the Wizarding World. 

Harry tried not to listen to that part of him for too long. When he did, he began to think of things he shouldn’t, like the height of the astronomy tower, the depths of the forbidden forest and the peace of the Dreamless Sleep potion. With the fate of the world on his shoulders, he couldn’t allow himself to dream of escape. 

At least, not until after the final battle had been fought. 

Until then, he was determined to stay away from his fellow Gryffindors and had even avoided Dumbledore and his teachers as much as he could. He would not let them know what he was doing – they would only try to stop him and he couldn’t allow that to happen. He had no choice but to be alone.   
Sighing deeply, he glanced around the room. Slughorn had finished with the slugs and was now explaining their homework. His eyes fell on the door, which was slightly ajar. Students filled the corridor outside, milling around, waiting for their next class. As usual, Slughorn had run overtime. As Harry watched, a flash of red hair and billowing black robes passed the gap in the doorway. 

Startled by its sudden appearance and disappearance, he stared after it, forgetting for a moment the promise he had made to himself. His thoughts were entirely on the redhead. He wondered what she thought of him. She had been the only one of his friends not to try to talk to him this year. A shot of pain flashed through Harry’s chest as he thought how she must hate him for abandoning her, for abandoning her family. He briefly considered chasing after her, trying to explain himself. 

Then, shaking his head slightly to clear it, he called his thoughts back into order. Looking up, he saw that his classmates were packing up and filing out the door. All, that is, except Hermione, who was watching him with a glint of triumph in her eyes. 

He glared at her until she looked away, then began to pack up his own things. He cursed himself inwardly for allowing a moment of weakness. As soon as he was packed, he ducked out the door and into an empty Potions classroom. Covering himself with his father’s cloak, Harry became invisible once again. It was easier for him this way. He could avoid the stares of the other students and the pained looks of his former friends. 

He ducked out into the now empty corridor and headed for the library to begin Slughorn’s essay. 

He would concentrate on his class work. He would not – could not allow himself to think about how his friends were suffering without him. He couldn’t think about Hermione’s knowing, triumphant eyes, but most of all, he could not think about the red headed girl who had somehow managed to break through the armour he had built around himself. 

For her own sake, he could not allow himself to think about Ginny Weasley.


	3. Wrapt in a Sheet of Flame

Mandrake root… 

Beetle eyes… 

Unicorn tail hair… 

Quicksilver… 

 

She hadn’t even glanced at him in the common room this morning. He had walked through without his cloak for the first time this year and she hadn’t even looked up from her textbook. 

Everyone else had noticed. After all, they hadn’t seen him outside of a classroom in nearly eight months. His fellow Gryffindors had stared as he walked past them, pretending not to notice the looks he was receiving. They had talked of nothing but Harry Potter’s mysterious reappearance since breakfast. 

But he hadn’t done it for them. He had done it for her, and her alone. 

And it had all been for nothing! 

No – he had promised himself he wouldn’t think of her anymore. He would concentrate on memorising the ingredients for Slughorn’s Draught of Living Death potion. His homework was all he had to distract him these days, both from the battle he knew awaited him and the battle he faced each day in keeping his friends away. 

 

Boiled Bubotuber pus… 

Powdered stamen of Aster… 

 

Why hadn’t she looked up? 

Concentrate, Harry! 

 

Essence of aubergine… 

Centaur saliva… 

 

It was no use. He put down his quill with a sigh. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Despite everything he’d done to distance himself from the world around him, he hadn’t been able to get Ginny Weasley out of his heart. Somehow she had found her way inside, reigniting the flame that had once burned there with her fiery hair, flaming temper and smouldering eyes. 

“Ugh!” Harry exclaimed, forgetting for once that he was invisible. How had she done this to him? Not only had she completely undermined his resolution to stay away from everyone he cared about and distracted him from his plans for the final battle, but now she had him waxing poetic! 

He looked around quickly, checking to see if anyone had been disturbed by his exclamation. The handful of students still in the library seemed not to have noticed his outburst and he turned back to his Potions work without giving it a second thought. 

Where was he? Oh, right. Centaur saliva. 

But the thought of saliva only made him feel sorry for himself, drooling as he was over a girl who couldn’t even be bothered to spare him a second’s glance when he surfaced for the first time in months. 

It had taken a solid week of internal debates before he had permitted himself the morning’s stroll through the common room. He had reasoned that it couldn’t possibly do any harm, as long as he didn’t actually talk to anyone or even look anyone in the eye. As long as he maintained his self-control, it would be fine. 

But now he knew it had been a mistake. Not because everyone was gossiping about him. That, he could handle. It was a mistake because now he couldn’t stop himself from obsessing over her reaction. At least when he’d been invisible, he didn’t have to worry about how other people treated him. 

Shaking his head in disgust with himself, he returned to his Potions work. Maybe he could get this done before the library closed and exhaust himself enough to stop thinking about Ginny for the night. 

He snorted at the notion, knowing that nothing else had been enough to halt the flow of thoughts and fantasies. 

No matter what he tried, he just couldn’t get Ginny Weasley off his brain or out of his heart. 

 

Hermione had discovered Harry’s hideout weeks before, when, whilst studying late one night, she had noticed a lone quill floating through the air above the library’s most isolated table. 

She didn’t dare approach him, for fear of scaring Harry even further into isolation. Instead, she too developed a routine of late night library visits, always careful to avoid walking anywhere near Harry’s table. She waited and watched from afar, hoping for small signs that Harry was still there, that he was still alright. 

Most nights she returned to Gryffindor tower disappointed, but every now and then, she was rewarded with a glimpse of parchment, the sound of a scratching quill and once, when Harry had fallen asleep over his work, she had actually seen him beneath the cloak slipping from his shoulders. Those moments kept her sane. 

She saw him in class, of course, but it wasn’t the same as knowing where he was when he was alone. Her vivid imagination had run rampant those first few weeks of school, when Harry had disappeared outside of classes. He didn’t come to meals, he never came into the common room. If Ron hadn’t assured her that his bed had been slept in at night, she would have run straight to Dumbledore. As it was, she had sent the headmaster more owls than she could count. Her only reply had been frustrating pleas for patience and insistence that Harry would be fine. 

So Hermione craved those moments, late at night, when she recognised his presence. It was irrational, she knew, but as long as Harry was in the library, she felt sure that he was ok. 

Tonight, her complete immersion in her Charms essay was disturbed by a sudden noise from Harry’s direction. She looked around at the other students in the library, but none of them showed the slightest sign of having produced the noise, nor of curiosity as to it’s source. 

She smiled quietly to herself. That had been a noise of disgust, she was sure. Disgust was good – it meant that he was still feeling, still thinking, still reflecting. Disgust meant he was still alive. 

She even had a sneaking suspicion as to what it was that had disgusted him. Knowing her friend as well as she did, she knew that the only thing that could have made him forget his invisibility was extreme, spontaneous emotion. If what she had glimpsed in Potions the week beforehand was any guide, she suspected that the cause of Harry’s exclamation of disgust was none other than Ginny Weasley. 

Thinking back to their conversation at the beginning of term, Hermione smiled to herself. Her plan had worked perfectly. 

“I don’t think I can do it, ‘Mione.” 

“Of course you can, Gin! You have to. For Harry’s sake.” 

“But I don’t see how it could possibly help for me to ignore him! I mean, he’s already practically invisible. How can I not look at him, not try to speak to him when he’s there?” 

“That’s my point. He’s hiding away from the world. He’s trying to cut himself off. I don’t know why, but he is. What we need to find is something to draw him back in. I think that something is you.” 

“What? Why me?” 

“Come on, Gin. Don’t say you haven’t noticed.” Hermione raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. 

“Noticed what?” 

“Ok, let me illustrate this.” She paused, then said dramatically, “Harry Potter.” 

Ginny smiled secretively and then began to blush as soon as she realised what she was doing. 

“What?” She cried defensively. 

“Ok, did you see that? The way you reacted? Let’s just say that Harry used to react exactly the same way to the name “Ginny Weasley”.” 

Ginny blushed more fervently, but her face was pleased. “Really?” 

“Really. You have to cut yourself off from him, Gin. I think it’s the only way to draw him out of isolation. He needs to see what it’s like when people you love cut you off.” 

“Why can’t you do it, then?” She was pleading now. 

Hermione paused, considering this. “Harry loves me, I’m sure of that. Just as I’m sure he loves Ron and Neville and Luna and all of us. We’re his friends. That hasn’t changed, no matter how he tries to cut us off. But it’s different with you. It’s a different emotion. It’s stronger, more powerful. More… uncontrollable.” 

Ginny’s entire face was red by this point. “Tell me about it.” 

Hermione laughed, but then she became serious once more. “I need you to do this, Gin. I need you to try for me. No, not for me. For Harry. Don’t speak to him, don’t look at him, don’t try to approach him.” 

“Okay, ‘Mione. I’ll do my best. But I can’t promise not to think about him…” 

“I wouldn’t ask you to.” 

Hermione had smiled then and now she smiled once more. Harry’s appearance in the common room that morning was a good sign. She had watched him and seen that he watched only one other person. She knew what had disgusted him and she was glad. 

For the first time in months, she allowed herself to hope. 

Maybe, just maybe, Harry would come back to them.


	4. What Was Dead Was Hope

Once more, Harry sat in class, staring idly into space. Today’s lesson was boring him. With so much spare time, he was weeks ahead of the class in the textbook and he had even been practicing his wand work late at night in the Room of Requirement. 

So, when Professor Flitwick announced that they would be practicing the Confundus Charm, Harry allowed his mind to wander. 

His thoughts drifted to the same place they always did recently and he was just musing on the beautiful way her lips curved when she smiled when there was a knock on the classroom door and it opened to reveal the object of Harry’s attention. 

Her eyes scanned the room and fell on Harry. Unthinkingly, he gave her a friendly grin. She smiled back, a look of pure joy, before Harry caught himself and looked away, forcing the smile from his face. He stared fixedly at his book as Ginny gave Professor Flitwick a message from Professor Sprout. As she turned to leave, he chanced a final glance at her. She looked hurt and confused and as she closed the door, a dull ache began in his chest that he could not ignore. He knew that it was guilt, but giving a name to it could not erase the feeling. 

Professor Flitwick gave them instructions on practicing the charm, then informed them that he was leaving to talk to Professor Sprout. He trusted that they would use the charm responsibly in his absence. It did not surprise the Gryffindors that Flitwick had no qualms about leaving them. Since they had Charms with the Hufflepuffs, it was unlikely any trouble would erupt. 

The Professor left and Harry once again let his thoughts go elsewhere, dwelling momentarily on his guilt and then returning to an extensive analysis of Ginny’s virtues. He had given up on trying to control these thoughts. He knew they were far more powerful than any magic they’d been taught in class, as Dumbledore had told him all those years earlier. 

So caught up was he in his thoughts, that he didn’t notice the hubbub erupting at the front of the classroom. Hermione and Ron were fighting in low whispers, heatedly discussing something nobody else could hear. Finally, Ron stood up, capturing the attention of the class. Hermione grabbed his arm, with a pleading, “Don’t, Ron!”, but he simply brushed her off and headed to the back of the classroom. He halted in front of Harry’s desk, face darkened with emotion. 

“Potter.” 

At this, Harry was pulled from his reverie back to the reality of Charms class. He glanced up at Ron for a second, then remembered that he was supposed to be ignoring his friends and let his eyes slip back to the textbook in front of him. He barely acknowledged Ron’s presence. 

A small voice in his mind wondered when he had stopped being “Harry” to Ron. It hurt, to be addressed by Ron as if it were Draco speaking. 

“I’m talking to you, Potter. Can’t you hear me?” 

Harry gave no reply. He would not dignify this intervention with a response. He knew that if he spoke, it would only provoke Ron further and undermine his efforts to distance himself from his friends. 

“Fine.” Ron was fuming. His face was red, but whether with fury or embarrassment at bring ignored in front of the class, Harry was unsure. 

“I just wanted to tell you that I think that what you’re doing is pretty low. I wish I didn’t have to do it in front of everyone, but you’ve left me no choice. It seems like you don’t even exist outside of class anymore.” 

Harry stared at his textbook with all his might, willing Ron to stop talking. It was getting harder and harder to contain himself. 

“This… whatever it is… ignoring us, neglecting your friends, shutting yourself away… It’s the kind of thing I’d expect from a Slytherin, but never from a Gryffindor. Never from you, Harry.” Ron’s voice cracked and with it, Harry’s heart. He knew what it must be costing his friend to say these things. 

Ron forced himself to continue. “Whatever you’re facing, you can tell us and we’ll deal with it together. We can help you. Let us help you, Harry!” 

Harry closed his eyes tight, trying to block out Ron’s words. He couldn’t hear this, it was too much. Ron couldn’t know how hard he was making it for Harry to ignore him, how he was tempting him to speak. But Harry’s self control was strong and he forced himself to withdraw away from the scene outside of him. He sought refuge in his mind, away from the world where his best friend was begging for his help. Never in a million years could he have imagined himself in this situation, denying Ron, hurting him and humiliating him. He wished it would stop. 

“Please.” That was Hermione’s voice now. With his eyes shut tightly against the world, Harry couldn’t tell if she spoke to him or to Ron. Either way, her plea was ignored. 

There was silence for what seemed like an eternity. Neither boy moved. It was like a frozen tableau, the pleading friend standing helplessly by the unyielding, refusing boy, determinedly shut in on himself. 

Then Ron broke the silence. 

“Fine, mate. That’s fine. You can go on treating us like this, if you like. Whatever floats your boat. Just don’t expect me to be here waiting when you decide that we’re good enough for the great Harry Potter to grace us with his friendship once again. Because, you know what? Real friends don’t do this to one another. So it’s over. I guess the past six years have meant nothing to you. Fine. That’s just great. I never did like being Harry Potter’s little sidekick, anyway.” 

Hermione drew a quick breath, shocked. “Ron!” she said, pleading in vain. Ron could not be stopped. 

“I can’t believe it. After all the times I stuck up for you, defended you, saved your life… You ungrateful… But I guess I was just never good enough to be your friend. That’s the problem with you, mate. You always have to be the famous one, to be the one in the spotlight. You always have to play the hero. Well, look where that got you, huh? It’s nearly killed me and ‘Mione loads of times, it killed your family, it killed Cedric and it even killed Sirius. You’re alone now and there’s no-one to blame but yourself. So go ahead! Shut us out! See if I care. My life’s been far less complex since you stopped talking to us, anyway. I haven’t nearly died in months!” 

By this point, Hermione was in tears. The rest of the class was still watching in horror as Ron screamed at the mute, resolute Harry. 

Harry could not shut out Ron’s words, nor prevent the pain they caused him. He knew that every word Ron had spoken was true. He was responsible for so many deaths, for so much suffering. Hearing Ron say it aloud only confirmed what he had long believed. 

He expected tears to come, but none did. Instead, he felt numb. Over the past few weeks, thoughts of Ginny had warmed his heart and melted the icy barrier he had built up over the holidays, but Ron’s cruel words hit him like cold knives to the gut. Harry felt himself recoil instinctively and withdraw once more from those tiny parts of the world he still clung to. 

He could tell Ron was reaching the end of his outburst now. “So go on, Potter. Go back to being invisible! The rest of us are better off without you.” He spat the final words, then looked at Harry, waiting for a response. 

Slowly, Harry raised his eyes from the textbook to meet Ron’s own. Harry could see anger in his gaze, but also apprehension. He realised Ron was afraid of him. The thought surprised him, but at this point, he was beyond being hurt by his friend. 

Harry’s own eyes contained no fear, no anger, no hurt. They were completely devoid of emotion. He could tell by Ron’s reaction that this scared him far more than anything else Harry could have done. 

He stared directly into Ron’s eyes, then spoke for the first time in months. 

“Ok.” 

Ron looked surprised – it was clearly the last thing he had expected Harry to say. Harry rose from his chair, leaving behind his books, quills and parchment. The class, many of whom had risen from their seats to watch the altercation, scrambled to get out of his way. He brushed past Ron and swept from the room. Hermione, tears running down her cheeks, was the only one with the presence of mind to follow him. She burst through the door mere steps behind Harry, but found only an empty corridor awaiting her. 

He had done what Ron had asked; he had become invisible once more. The thought terrified Hermione. She knew something vital had changed; she had seen that in Harry’s eyes. She had no idea where Harry could have gone, or what he would do when he got there. She knew that she had no way of finding out and no way of stopping him. 

Frustrated and frightened, she ducked back into their Charms classroom. 

“He’s gone!” Her voice, full of emotion, was heard by the whole class, but it was clearly meant only for Ron. 

“Good riddance!” Ron was still hurting from Harry’s behaviour, but she could see that he too was afraid of what he had done. He knew he had crossed a line. 

Hermione stormed up to him, looked him straight in the eyes and slapped him hard across the face. Never had she been so angry with anyone in her life. 

“Ouch! ‘Mione! What was that for?” 

“You know exactly what that was for, Ronald Weasley! What have you done?” 

“What? Everyone was thinking it. I was just the only one with the guts to say it.” His worried face belied the easy confidence in his voice. He knew exactly what he had done to deserve Hermione’s rage and deep down, he too was frightened of what Harry would do now. 

She slapped him again, harder. “You know, sometimes you can be a bloody idiot!” 

She stormed from the classroom, headed for the library. When she arrived, she ran straight to Harry’s usual table. Grabbing frantically at the air above each seat, she could not find Harry anywhere. At last, giving in to her emotions, she collapsed into a chair, dropped her head to the desk and began to weep uncontrollably. 

When Flitwick returned to the classroom, he found three students missing. No one in the class would explain where they had gone and he was left to puzzle over it for the remainder of the day. When the students checked the hourglass that afternoon, they found that 30 points had been deducted from Gryffindor for the absences, but the loss of points was nothing compared to what the Gryffindors had truly lost that day. 

The atmosphere in the common room was subdued that evening. Ron sat in a corner armchair, not doing anything or speaking to anyone. He just stared into space, his face set. 

Hermione refused to come down from her dormitory, where she had been crying all afternoon. 

And Harry, whose absence they were all truly feeling now that it had finally been spoken aloud, never appeared at all. 

Wracked with guilt, Ron lay awake all night, straining his ears for some sound, some hint of his friend’s arrival, but heard none. 

When he checked in the morning, he found Harry’s bed untouched. 

For the first time in his entire life at Hogwarts, Ronald Weasley skipped breakfast.


	5. The Kiss of Caiaphas

“That’s it.” Hermione declared, her voice resolute. “I’m done with waiting.” 

She paced the empty common room as she spoke. It was long past midnight and the other Gryffindors had returned to their dormitories. 

“It’s been four months now and Harry’s only gotten worse. I thought maybe we could help him, that maybe time would heal whatever wounds he’s nursing, but I was wrong.” 

“But he was getting better!” Ginny cried, her voice pleading. “Before… He smiled at me, Hermione! He smiled! Maybe we just need more time…” 

“No.” Her tone left no room for argument. “That was before. Now, with Ron… everything is different.” 

“It doesn’t have to be – ” 

“It is.” Every part of her emanated restrained anger, from the set of her jaw, to her clenched fists. “I can’t believe that boy! What was he thinking? Was he even thinking at all?” 

“Don’t be so hard on him. You know what he’s like. He gets emotional and his temper gets the better of him.” 

“You weren’t there, Gin. You don’t know…” 

“I know Ron, Hermione. He’s my brother. I know he didn’t mean to hurt him. Harry’s… He was Ron’s best friend. You’ve got to forgive him. He’s in pain.” 

“We’re all in pain! What gives him the right to do that to Harry?” 

Ginny looked down, jaw clenched. For a moment, Hermione thought she was going to yell, but when she spoke, the words were soft, plaintive. “I need to know. Was it… How bad was it, really?” 

Hermione stopped pacing, staring into the lowly blazing fire. As she watched, it crackled and a log dropped in a shower of sparks. The last flame shrank away and the burning embers glowed dully. 

“It was…” She bit her trembling lip, forehead creased in pain. “It was bad. It was his eyes. They were… they were dead, Ginny. I’ve never seen him like that before. All the light was gone. He… he wasn’t even Harry.” 

Ginny swallowed hard. “So what do we do?” 

“There’s a spell I know… a potion. I think, in the right situation, with the right leverage, we can bring him back, force him to feel again. But we’ll have to be careful. None of the teachers can know.” 

The red head nodded, her eyes on the floor. “You’ll need me, won’t you? To be the… leverage.” 

Hermione looked up sharply, eyeing the other girl with a searching look that read more than it betrayed. “Yes,” she finally conceded, “I’ll need you to be our leverage.” 

“I can do it.” Ginny said calmly, looking at her friend with blazing eyes. “Whatever you need, I can do it.” Her eyes dropped to the ground once more, as she softly added, “I can’t lose him, Hermione. Not like this.” 

Hermione watched her carefully as the other girl, still looking down, mouthed to herself, “Not ever.” 

Hermione was surprised. She knew that Harry and Ginny had feelings for one another, but she had assumed that it was just a crush, a fleeting teen romance. She hadn’t realised how deep Ginny’s feelings really were. She only hoped Harry felt the same, both for her friend’s sake and for Harry’s own, because it was only through those feelings that they would be able to save him. 

Hermione sighed deeply and sank down into a plush red armchair, once more watching the glowing embers of the Gryffindor fire. If they were going to pull this off, they would have to plan carefully. Nobody but the two of them could know what they had in mind, not even Ron. Especially not Ron, after his fight with Harry. 

Hermione knew that it had been that encounter which had pushed Harry over the edge. Since that day, he had disappeared completely. He didn’t eat with them, didn’t visit the tower and had even relinquished his nightly visits to the library. She knew, because she had snuck in to check, that Harry was no longer sleeping in his dormitory. He still showed up to classes, presumably so the teachers wouldn’t worry, but he remained silent unless called upon and did not look at or speak to anyone. As soon as class was over, he would disappear once more. 

When she watched him in class, as she always did, she could see that he had lost a lot of weight. He clearly hadn’t been eating properly. He constantly had dark shadows around his eyes and he stared into space as if he were watching a movie only he could see. 

That afternoon, Hermione, desperate to find some way to help Harry, had finally gone to see Dumbledore. Up til now, his letters had prevented her from visiting him, but she felt she could no longer delay, with Harry in such obvious need of help. 

Having obtained the password from Professor McGonagall, she ascended the stone gargoyle staircase and entered Dumbledore’s private study. Everything was as she remembered it from her previous visits, except for one thing. The room was vacant. 

“Hello? Professor?” She called aloud, just in case, but it was clear that the office was deserted. 

She strolled over to his desk, not sure what she was hoping to find. On top of some quills and pieces of parchment lay an envelope, with “Miss Hermione Granger” scrawled across it in thin, spidery handwriting. 

She opened it, unsure what she would find inside. The letter was brief, written in purple ink in the same handwriting as the envelope. 

My dear Miss Granger, 

Unfortunately, urgent Ministry business calls me from Hogwarts at the present. I suspected that, in my absence, you might feel the need to visit me in regards to the welfare of Mr Potter. I can only assure you once again that, in my opinion, Harry is simply suffering the after effects of a particularly traumatic experience – the loss of his Godfather – and will doubtless recover in time. Your concern does you great credit. 

I shall be glad to meet with you upon my return. 

Regards, 

Albus Dumbledore. 

Hermione’s hands were now shaking in anger. Who was this man, that he could so easily dismiss Harry’s obvious depression and isolation? Albus Dumbledore’s wisdom was legendary, yet in this case he had failed to see the reality of the situation before him. Perhaps it was because he was so far removed from his students of late. He had barely been at Hogwarts this year, distracted by his duties with the Order. Perhaps his stress, his preoccupation with the war, was blinding him to Harry’s predicament? 

She didn’t know why Dumbledore was failing her now, but she could see that she would receive no help from him. If Harry were going to be saved, she would have to do it herself. 

She turned away from the fire to look at the determined young woman seated opposite her. 

She was not in this alone. Together, they would save her friend.


	6. The Dead So Soon Grow Cold

When Harry Potter pulled his wand from the sleeve of his robe and cast a stunning spell, his voice croaked, weak from disuse. 

It had been nearly a month since his fight with Ron. Nearly a month since he had spoken to another human being. His teachers no longer called upon him in class, fearing the cool, steady gaze of his unnervingly green eyes. They let him be. As long as he showed up to his lessons and completed his homework, they did not bother him. 

He had been living in the Room of Requirement: sleeping, studying and training in solitude; preparing for the battle that lay ahead of him. He only emerged for classes. In some ways, he was glad for the isolation. It allowed him to prepare, mentally and physically, for his fate. It allowed him to shut off the thoughts and feelings that had plagued him while he was still interacting with the world. He no longer thought about Ginny or his other friends. Ron’s words had hurt him deeply, and he had retreated into his shell, for his own protection and for theirs. 

His emotions were not gone, but merely muted, as if someone had turned the volume down on the television of his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, he kept catching glimpses of colours moving on the screen and picking up odd, low pieces of dialogue, but he could not see or hear the show. His feelings certainly had not vanished, but neither did he allow them to surface, to rule him as they once had. 

Now he was training - throwing stunning spells at the manikin the room had provided for him - practicing as he had done for months now. He was wholly and completely focussed on the task at hand; intent on destroying the cushiony figure at the end of the room. 

“Stupefy!” His anger fuelled the magic. 

“Stupefy!” 

“STUPEFY!” 

The feelings he had bottled up inside were building, but he channelled them all into his spells. Soon stunning was not enough for him. He needed more. 

“REDUCTO!” 

The manikin exploded, sending a shower of feathers cascading down over the room. As the tiny white flecks slowly wafted from the ceiling, Harry stood still, panting slightly. It was not the effort of spellcasting that had exhausted him, but the memory of the last time that he had seen the spell cast. 

He had watched Ginny reduce a similar manikin to dust in this very room only a year earlier, never guessing how soon she would have to use the spell to defend herself, to fight for her life and the lives of those she loved. 

He had watched her battle the forces of darkness at the Ministry, armed only with that curse. The deadened emotions on the edge of his consciousness stirred. As he stood in the snowy room, Harry felt the first pangs of the guilt he had repressed over the past few weeks. 

He let the feeling wash over him, opening himself to that soft, dangerous voice inside of him. 

“It’s your fault, Harry. Your fault they almost died.” 

He closed his eyes, but it was no use. The voice was inside of him. Part of him didn’t even want to escape it. He needed to hear what it had to say. 

“You killed Sirius and you will kill them too.” 

His mind protested. “I didn’t kill…” 

“He died to protect you. He died because you rushed straight to the Ministry without thinking, without checking. You killed him and one day the others too will die because of you. Voldemort may kill them, but it will be your fault, because you had the chance to save them, to keep them away from you and you didn’t. You chose to serve your own selfish desire for acceptance. You chose yourself over their lives. You know it’s true, Harry. In the end, you will kill them. You always hurt the ones you love.” 

He reeled, feeling hollow once again. He didn’t see the final feathers hit the floor. He saw only images of death as, one by one, the horrific, mutilated shapes of his friends’ corpses flashed through his mind. 

No tears erupted in the lifeless depths of emerald green that were Harry’s grieving eyes. 

He had none left to shed. 

His fault. It was all his fault. 

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched scream so loud it must have been heard all over the castle. It was so like the screams of his mother that he frequently heard in his dreams that he gasped, thinking that maybe he had finally lost his mind, blurred the border between dream and reality. 

Then the scream was repeated and he realised with a sudden pang of emotion that he knew the voice. His heart stopped beating. In that moment, the world came rushing back to Harry Potter. The shadowy veil he had dwelt behind evaporated and his heart roared back to life. 

He grabbed the cloak from where it lay, stirring a flurry of feathers, and flung it around his shoulders. He rapidly snatched the map from his desk and ran from the room, headed for the source of the screaming. 

‘I’m coming, Hermione!’ he thought fiercely as he raced through the halls. 

He found her on the main staircase, kneeling with her head down and her tangled hair fallen across her face. She was rocking back and forth. Forgetting once more that he was invisible, he grabbed her shoulder and looked her in the eye. She knocked his hand away and stared wildly about, searching for the person she could feel but not see. 

“Harry?” she asked, incredulously, her eyes full of bewilderment and anguish. 

“It’s ok, Hermione. I’m here.” His heart, so newly repaired, was breaking for her. “Are you ok?” 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I tried to stop them, I did.” Her voice cracked with fear. 

“Stop who, Hermione?” He was beginning to panic now, his breathing coming more quickly and the barest hint of bile rising in the back of his throat. He did not want to hear what she had to say. 

“I’m so sorry. They were too strong. They took her.” She was crying now, sobbing heavily. 

Harry rose quickly, his head leaden. He turned away from Hermione and brought out the map, activating it and searching the grounds with impatient eyes. 

There! She was outside the front entrance. He took off, leaving Hermione to the lonely hall. He did not look back as she called out to him, “Harry! No!” 

Wrapped in the cloak, he raced down the stairs, not caring who heard his pounding footsteps. He ran through the entrance hall, following the map clutched tightly in one hand. He was creasing it and sweating through the parchment, but he did not care. All he could think about was reaching the blinking dot that read “Ginny Weasley”. He did not want to think about what he would find when he did. 

Bursting forth into the open air, Harry saw a black-cloaked figure racing across the grounds towards the forest. He knew by the way it moved that it was Snape. Unthinkingly, he shot a body-bind curse at him. It struck him squarely between the shoulder blades and he dropped like a stone. 

Not pausing to think about the fact that he had just hexed a teacher, Harry glanced at the map once more and saw that the blinking dot was flashing right beside the tiny, steady one that read “Harry Potter”. He turned slowly, knowing in his heart what he would find, what the blinking really meant. 

He saw the sight he dreaded most – a small, pale body, swathed in black robes, fallen on the flagstones. Her bright red hair was fanned out around her head like a halo. 

“No…” he breathed, for a moment doubting whether he was really awake. The scene so resembled his nightmares that for a moment he was frozen. 

“Please… no…” 

Then he unfroze and ran to her side. He flung the invisibility cloak from him and grabbed her shoulders, barely aware of what he was doing. He shook her, softly at first, then more and more violently. 

“Ginny! GINNY! Wake up!” 

But there was no response, not even a flicker of her eyelids to show that she still lived. Her chest was still and her china skin felt cold to his touch. 

“No.” He let the light body fall back to the ground softly. “Not again.” 

A thousand emotions swamped the edges of his heart, but he was barely aware of them. He felt numb and disconnected. 

It had happened again. He had lost someone close to him… someone he loved. He had tried and tried to keep his friends safe. He had sacrificed everything, everyone that had kept him human so that they could survive. 

But it was all for nothing. 

She was gone and he could never bring her back. He could never tell her why he’d acted the way that he had, he could never explain, never tell her how he felt about her… 

He could never tell her he was sorry. 

No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to shut himself off from the world, he still ended up hurting the ones he loved. 

A line of long-forgotten poetry, remnant from his days at muggle primary school, drifted through his mind. 

For each man kills the thing he loves, yet each man does not die… 

As long as he was alive, he would continue to hurt them. Not just Ginny, but Ron, Hermione, Lupin, Hagrid, the Weasleys, even Dumbledore. 

He couldn’t protect them by hiding, he knew that now. There was only one way to save them. 

He had to destroy the threat. He had to destroy Voldemort, who was responsible for the death and destruction that had haunted him since that fateful day at Godric’s Hollow. 

But that wouldn’t be enough, for though Voldemort was the actual killer, Harry knew that he was the one who was truly at fault. The blame lay at his doorstep and each death lay on his conscience. 

Killing Voldemort would not be enough. 

He had to destroy himself, too.


	7. Phantoms Keep Their Tryst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They say there is nothing new under they sun. They say there are only 46 different stories in the world, varied and adapted thousands of times over.  
> In this case, that seems to be true, since my story is very quickly becoming decidedly Shakespearean. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I have no claim on Romeo & Juliet, West Side Story or any other work of fiction that uses the same story arc. 
> 
> (No, I’m not giving away the story. Not really. Mine is different – it only really borrows one thing from R & J. You’ll know it when you read it. Ok, I’ll stop writing now, before I ruin everything!) 
> 
> Enjoy!

It had all gone horribly wrong. 

How could it have happened? She couldn’t understand it. They had planned together so carefully, taking the time to make sure they were prepared for every possible scenario, everything that could conceivably go wrong. 

They had gone over the plan together countless times and they had felt sure they were ready. They were smug, overconfident - they felt they had every right to be. After all, they had been told time and again that they were the two smartest students in the school. 

They had planned for changes in weather, for spells gone awry, for student interruptions and had even discussed an emergency rogue house elf policy, but the one variable they did not consider, the one thing they couldn’t plan for, was Severus Snape. 

 

For years, Severus had longed for the post of Defence Against The Dark Arts Master. His experience in the field was undoubtedly vast and he felt, after all he’d been through, after all he’d done for the Order, that he deserved it. He had dropped endless hints to Dumbledore, finally asking outright when his subtle attempts to persuade him had failed. 

Now that the position was his, he couldn’t help but yearn for his old post. Right now he wanted nothing more than to be safely shut away in the dark, cool dungeons, to hide from the world behind a bubbling cauldron. There was nothing like the careful precision of Potions to soothe the nerves and calm his troubled soul. He missed his “subtle science”. He longed for his “exact art”. 

Maybe James had been right, all those years ago. Maybe Snivellus really did belong in the dungeons, far away from the harsh light of day. Maybe he should have listened to his arch rival and kept his “pasty face” indoors. 

If he had, he wouldn’t be where he was today. 

It would have to be an improvement. 

He had taken to walking the grounds late at night. When asked, he claimed he was “patrolling”, but in reality he needed the security of solitude to think. 

How had he gotten himself into this situation? When he had come to Dumbledore all those years ago, begging for forgiveness, desperate for redemption, he had never imagined that the old man would ask so much of him in return for his deliverance. 

Now he found himself wondering if the price was higher than he was willing to pay. 

He stared across the vast expanse of still black water. The trees beyond the lake shifted gently in the breeze and the green of the grass darkened in the evening air. 

Daylight was slowly fading as Severus lost himself in memories. 

He thought of long terms spent by the shores of the lake he now skirted, first as a young boy, then an angry teenager, and finally, now, as a bitter man. Bitter because of the young boy and the angry teenager he had been. Bitter because, in every one of his memories of these grounds, of this lake, of a lifetime at Hogwarts, he was alone. 

No, that wasn’t true. There was one memory stored in the depths of his mind, just one, where he wasn’t on his own. It was a memory of soft red hair, hard, angry words and emerald eyes. Emerald eyes filled with hurt and betrayal. It had been his own, private memory, a treasure hoarded for years by an angry teenager who had become a bitter man. It had been his alone, until the boy had violated his mind. 

That boy, who had looked at him with his mother’s eyes. With the same hurt, the same betrayal. It had cut him to the core. 

What had he done? What had Potter done? 

Curse him! Curse him for being everything he had loved and everything that he had hated. Why had fate been so cruel? It had sent him a carbon copy of the man he hated most, to look at him with the eyes of the woman he had loved. 

The woman he still loved. 

For a while, his thoughts returned to that day at the lake, but soon other memories came to haunt him. Memories of secret smiles, of study dates and childhood friends on muggle swings. 

He was still lost in the past when he left the lake and climbed to the castle entrance. The shadows were lengthening as he turned one last time to survey the grounds. He scanned the silent lake, the twilit skies and the blustery forest, sighing heavily. He knew that the memories of a lifetime at Hogwarts would always be with him, but it was only when he walked his nightly rounds of the grounds that he could truly relive them. In the grounds, he could lose himself in the beautiful promise that yesterday had held. A promise made with solemn, emerald eyes. 

He spun suddenly towards the castle, his cloak billowing. He had essays to mark and classes to plan. The grounds would still be there tomorrow. 

So distracted was he that he almost missed the small black shape lying by the castle wall. Almost. He caught it out of the corner of his eye and turned back to look at it. In the looming darkness, he couldn’t make out what it was. Suddenly and inexplicably afraid, he moved towards it, wand at the ready. 

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. 

It was Lily – his Lily. 

Her auburn hair was stark against bone white skin and she was still. Too still. 

He stood before it for what seemed like an eternity. When he finally found the strength to move, he knelt beside her. He reached out a shaking hand to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. 

What had he done? 

“I’m so sorry.” 

The words escaped his lips before he could stop them. Sixteen years of guilt and a lifetime of heartache welled up inside of him. Tears, held back for so long, welled in his eyes. 

Her skin felt cold beneath his hand. She was so pale that freckles, usually invisible, were clear, spattering her delicate cheek. 

Freckles? 

His Lily didn’t have freckles. 

He looked more closely, this time seeing for real, not through the eyes of his memory. 

He breathed a sigh of relief, then one of disgust. 

It wasn’t his Lily, it was one of the Weasley brats. 

Still, his heart throbbed to see her lying there, so cold and lifeless, so like the woman he still loved. 

He reached out a hand once more. If he could pretend, just for a moment longer – 

The air was split by a piercing scream. It wasn’t loud, but it was close by. He doubted anyone else had heard it, but it was enough to make him snatch his arm away and jump to his feet. 

What was going on? 

He heard the scream again and instinct took over. He turned and ran, headed for the forest. With his loyalties already in doubt, he knew he could not be found standing over the dead body of a student. Even Dumbledore would have a hard time trusting him after that. 

As he ran, his mind raced too. Who had done this? Who had screamed? Had the Dark Lord somehow found a way into the school? Had he been compromised? 

His thoughts were occupied thus when he felt something hit him in the back, knocking the air from his lungs. He fell to the ground, grateful for the shielding spell he always kept in place around him. His natural reluctance to trust others had saved him countless times before, but this time he was doubly grateful. 

Whoever had tried to stun him had almost certainly now forgotten him, confident that their spell had taken effect. Hardly moving, barely breathing, he turned his head by degrees to look back towards the school. He saw a black-robed figure kneeling with his back to Snape, bent over the body. 

This was no help to him. Death Eaters wore black, but then, so did Hogwarts students. He silently cursed the lack of variety in wizard fashion and decided that he had no choice. He had to return to the school. 

Quickly and clumsily, Snape staggered to his feet and headed back towards the entrance. He cast another shield before him as he walked, striding purposefully behind it. He did not know if the figure was friend or foe, but he was ready for anything. 

It may be just a student, or one of the other teachers, but he knew that there was an equally strong chance that he was walking towards his master, that he was headed for his own doom. 

Regardless, he was ready. If this was to be the final showdown, he would fall fighting.


	8. Prison of its Prey

As he watched, the figure rose. They stood motionless, facing the castle, for what felt like forever. Snape moved ever closer. When they pulled their wand from their sleeve and muttered something, Snape picked up his pace. 

The sound of something moving quickly through the air made him look up. As he watched, a broom came zooming around the side of the castle. It looked as if there was something draped across it. It came to a stop in front of the figure, who mounted. 

Snape cursed under his breath. He was still too far away to reach them, to call to them. He would just have to hex first and ask questions later. 

The person had just kicked off the ground when Snape raised his wand. 

‘Nothing too strong,’ he thought. ‘Just a stunning spell.’ 

He prayed that it was a fellow Death Eater, or at least an intruder of some kind. They may be dangerous, but anything was better than having to explain to Dumbledore why he had hexed a student. 

He drew a breath. 

“Stup-” was all he managed, before he heard a shriek and felt himself being thrown backwards onto the grass by the force of a spell hitting his shield. From his position on the lawn, he watched the unknown figure fly away, cursing whoever had tried to stun him and let them escape. 

The spell had come from the entranceway. 

He leapt once more to his feet, thinking that the next person to knock him down would face the wrath of his Sectumsempra curse. 

He raced to the entrance of the castle, where he found a small brunette staring into the sky after the receding figure. 

“Granger.” He didn’t need to shout to sound threatening, nor to get her attention. She tore her gaze away from the heavens and faced the thin, dark-haired man before her. 

He tried to remain calm. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but dangerous. “Might I ask why you felt the need to hex your Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor?” 

She was calm, rational. “I had to save Harry. You were going to curse him.” 

Ah. So the figure had been Potter. He should have guessed from the broomstick. Suddenly he regretted hesitating to stun the mysterious man. 

“I was going to stun him, not curse him, Miss Granger.” His precise words were cutting. “Teachers do not often curse their students.” He glared at her pointedly. 

As she blushed and looked away, he turned his attention to the small girl still lying on the paving near them. She had not moved. 

‘It’s not Lily.’ No matter how many times he told himself, he still couldn’t slow his racing heart. 

His eyes fixed on the haunting corpse, he questioned Hermione. 

“Do you know what happened here? How was she… How did Miss Weasley…” 

“She’s not dead.” Hermione’s voice was quiet, but firm. 

Snape turned back to her and blinked once, slowly. 

“What?” 

“She’s not dead. She drank the Draught Of The Living Dead Potion. She’s just unconscious.” 

He blinked once more, trying to process this information. 

Frowning, he asked, “Why would she do that?” 

“It was for Harry… We thought… we thought if he saw her dead that he’d…” She couldn’t continue when she saw the look on Snape’s face. Her eyes were huge. 

“We?” He asked, his voice icy. 

She gulped. “Yes, sir. It was my idea.” 

His expression darkened. “Miss Granger, I am now going to revive Miss Weasley and take her to the hospital wing. I want you to go back inside the castle and wait in my office. Believe me when I say that the punishment you will receive for this will make nightly detentions seem like a trip to Hogsmeade.” 

Ashamed, she answered softly. “Yes, Professor.” She turned and headed to the main doors as Snape knelt over Ginny. He forced himself to think of anything but swingsets as he pressed the tip of his wand to her temple and whispered, “Rennervate!” 

Her eyelids fluttered and she let out a soft moan. 

“Harry?” 

Snape rolled his eyes, disgusted, then answered in clipped tones, “No, this is not Harry. Miss Weasley, you are in a lot of trouble.” 

Her eyes snapped open. Surprised and horrified, she cried, “Professor Snape!” 

“Very observant, Miss Granger. Perhaps you can tell me why you felt the need to imitate death for the evening? Some sort of practical joke, I presume, designed to terrify passers by. I would have expected this from your brothers, but I had thought you had more sense.” His tone was dry as he helped her to sit. There was no mockery in it now. 

“N-no, sir.” She was already on the verge of tears. “It’s Harry, sir. He’s… he hasn’t been himself lately and we thought that if we… Well, Hermione thought and I agreed to help out because I wanted Harry to get better and so we agreed that if he thought I was dead then he would want to help, want to save me, so Hermione was going to magic her scream so just Harry would hear it and come and then Hermione was supposed to come and… Where’s Hermione?” For the first time, her jumbled thoughts fell on her friend. 

“Miss Weasley, your ramblings are not helpful. I suggest that we go back into the castle. It’s growing dark and I wish to have Madame Pomfrey examine you before I have you expelled.” 

At the final word, Ginny turned green. Expulsion? No! She thought of her mother and her brothers. She thought of her father and his job at the Ministry. How could they bear the humiliation? She silently, slightly unsteadily, clambered to her feet. 

As she looked up into the furious face of her ex-Potions master, an urgent question broke through the dreadful thoughts of her punishment. She couldn’t resist. She had to ask, even if it meant getting herself into even deeper trouble. 

“Professor,” she asked, gathering her courage. He glared at her. She forged onwards. “Where’s Harry?” 

He sighed, exasperated with the ridiculous priorities of teenage girls. 

“Potter is gone, Miss Weasley. Flown away on his precious broomstick. I expect he’s joyriding around the grounds.” 

“He’s gone?” She sounded bewildered. 

“Yes, girl! Do I have to draw you a picture?” By this point, his limited patience had expired. “He’s gone, though I can’t imagine why he’d choose now of all times to do it. What on earth is that boy thinking, flying off at this time of night?” 

It was meant as a rhetorical question, but he received an answer. He turned towards the castle impatiently, meaning to enter, then stopped, surprised. 

“Miss Granger, I have had quite enough for one evening.” 

Hermione had come to a halt in the doorway, fixed to the spot. Her face was frozen in horror. In a deadly soft voice, her gaze caught in space, Hermione answered his question. 

“I think I know where he’s gone.” 

Snape looked sharply at her, hearing the resigned tone and seeing the fear in her eyes. He drew a sharp breath, suddenly understanding. 

“He thinks she’s dead.” 

Hermione couldn’t meet his gaze. For a moment there was silence. In the end, Ginny was the one to ask. “Where’s Harry? Hermione, I –” 

“He’s done it, hasn’t he?” Snape interrupted, his eyes wide and his voice hollow. 

Hermione finally found the courage to look up. Staring at her teacher, she realised she had never seen him look surprised. 

Holding his gaze, she nodded silently, her expression grim. Ginny looked back and forth between the two of them, still not comprehending. 

“Where has he gone?” she demanded, her voice strained. 

It was Snape who answered. 

“He’s gone to meet him. He’s gone to face the Dark Lord.” 

Ginny gasped, but Snape ignored her. He was staring at the pale young woman before him, horrified. 

“Granger, what have you done?”


	9. The Best Man And The Worst

It was easy for Harry to summon his Firebolt and his cloak from where he had hidden them in his dormitory. His battle against the Hungarian Horntail in fourth year had prepared him well. 

Once they arrived, he mounted his broom, shrouded himself in the cloak and took off, leaving the nightmare scene behind. He did not hear the sharp yell, or the cry of surprise below him. 

He had already forgotten Snape, so focussed was he on his mission. He knew exactly where to find Voldemort. He could feel him, sense his presence in the back of his mind. 

His rival had grown stronger over the past few months. He dwelt on the edge of Harry’s sanity, always threatening to seep into his consciousness. Harry’s firm grasp on his own identity was all that had been keeping the Dark Lord at bay. Now, with his conviction slipping, Voldemort had taken root in his mind. 

He saw it as a victory; Harry saw it as a blessing. It made it that much easier for him to find his target. 

He supposed that Voldemort had never guessed that Harry would come looking for him. What sane person would willingly seek out their doom? And what could Voldemort be to Harry but his doom? For how could a skinny 16 year old Wizard-in-training possibly best the greatest Dark Wizard known to the world? 

Surrounded by friends and admirers, comfortable and safe at Hogwarts, Voldemort assumed that Harry could have no reason to ever seek out his nemesis. 

When Harry came, it took him by surprise. 

He was alone, seated in a dusty armchair in an old Muggle house. Its true occupants were long gone: fled, or murdered. He couldn’t remember any more. The names of those he’d slaughtered, their faces and their final pleas, had all faded in his memory. He had killed so many – what did it matter now who they had been? 

Alone in the dusty, forgotten house, Voldemort stared into space. He pondered each of his followers in turn, plotting his next move carefully. If they were to launch an attack on Hogwarts as he planned, he needed to know who could truly be trusted. 

His old servant Severus had been cause for alarm of late. Always the last to assemble when the mark called him, he had been distracted and secretive. Secretive behaviour was just what he expected from his spies, but the secrets were meant to be kept from the enemy, not from him. There were no secrets between the Death Eaters and their master. Now, as he sat in the gloomy, abandoned house, he wondered where Severus’ loyalties really lay. 

The sound of the young wizard landing on the crunchy gravel driveway startled, but did not faze him. After all, many of his followers travelled by broom when they did not wish to apparate. 

Not for a moment did he guess that it was Harry, so when the young man walked into the musty living room, Voldemort was still seated in the chair, unarmed and unprepared. 

He chuckled softly at the sight of the boy, but did not flinch. He spoke in a voice that was barely human. 

“Potter.” 

His eyes flickered over Harry, then flitted back to scan the room and the hallway behind him. They never stopped moving, stirring, shifting. 

“I confess, I did not expect to see you so soon. Have you finally come to your senses and realised that this war you are waging is useless? Has the great Harry Potter come to surrender?” 

Without a word, Harry moved towards him, wand pointed directly at his chest. There was no mistaking the threat. 

“Ahh. I see that that is not the case.” There was no fear in his voice. He spoke calmly, as if they were discussing the weather, rather than the fate of the Wizarding World. 

“Pity… I do so wish that I didn’t have to kill you, Harry. I’d much prefer that you live to enjoy the deaths of your friends and the little family you have left. I was hoping to kill them in front of you - one by one, slowly, painfully. Well, so much for that little fantasy.” 

Harry didn’t move or speak, but the hand that held the wand before him began to shake. 

“It seems that you have left me no choice but to kill you now. What a shame! It will make the battle for Hogwarts ever so much less interesting. I was quite looking forward to facing you there. I would have made you watch as I destroyed your precious home, stone by stone. No, it cannot be. Not now that you have come here. I simply cannot let you live.” 

Harry could stand it no longer. “Let me live!?! I think you should take another look at the situation here. I’m the one holding the wand.” 

“You think I need a wand to do magic, boy?” 

Harry flinched. 

“I could kill you now, without even pausing for breath.” 

“As could I you.” Harry replied, with more bravado than he felt. 

Voldemort arched a muscle in the pasty space where his eyebrow should have been. It was somehow far creepier on a hairless man. He spoke softly. 

“So why don’t you?” 

Harry didn’t reply. He couldn’t. The Dark Lord rose to his feet without effort, and Harry had to hastily back up several steps to keep his wand in position. He could feel his power slipping away rapidly. 

“You white-hats are so predictable. So unerringly good.” He was sneering as he said it, his snake-like eyes narrowed to razor-thin slits and his voice mocking. 

“You don’t have the guts to kill me, to take me down in cold blood. Dumbledore is exactly the same.” He spread his arms wide, presenting Harry with an unmissable target. 

“Two simple words: Avada… Kedavra. Then it’s over. I’ve done it a thousand times, so why is it so hard for you?” 

He began to step towards Harry. He walked calmly, but there was menace in his pace. Harry couldn’t stop himself from backing away with every step Voldemort took towards him. He knew he should act, strike while he still had some semblance of an advantage, but he felt frozen. He was both repulsed and strangely fascinated by the man before him. In the part of his mind they shared, he saw his own pale face reflected back to him. Distantly, Harry was surprised by how calm he looked. The fear he felt in his heart did not show on his face. 

“I’ve given this quite a bit of thought and now I think I know.” He spoke with triumph. “You can’t kill me, because then you would become me.” 

This startled Harry. “What?” he asked, his voice shot through with horror. His opponent smiled to hear it. It was a cruel, cold smirk. 

“You must know, Harry, as I do, that you and I share a bond. We are… alike. We are kindred.” 

Speechless, Harry shook his head mutely. 

“Oh yes. That is why our minds are linked. That is why you can speak Parseltongue. That is why we are drawn together, time and time again. Have you never thought how alike we are? Orphaned, neglected, singled out by fate, given powers beyond our peers? You and I, Harry, are the same.” 

“No.” Harry finally found his voice. “I am nothing like you. I don’t kill in cold blood. I don’t murder and torture innocent people.” 

“But you could, Harry.” He was insistent now, and sinister. “You are moments away from doing so now. You are mere moments away from killing me. From becoming me.” 

“I am nothing like you!” Harry cried, desperate, demanding. Hearing panic in his voice, he closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. 

With his eyes closed, he could truly feel the sickly presence of his enemy in his mind. He couldn’t be like this creature, could he? Surely they were not the same? 

The voice he loathed floated once more through his mind. ‘You heard him. You’re the same. Your lives… Your feelings… All those things you can do… What makes you different from him?’ 

He knew it was an excellent question. He racked his brain desperately, searching for something, anything; hunting for some sign of his goodness, his sanity, but finding none. Maybe there was nothing there to find. 

Suddenly, a face flashed into his mind. Freckled skin, long auburn hair, intelligent, smiling eyes. 

Smiling for him. 

Other faces followed it – long noses, bushy hair, horn-rimmed glasses and wiry beards. All flashed through his mind in a moment and he knew. 

He knew what it was that made him different to the monster before him, what drove him and guided him. 

“Love.” He whispered the word, feeling warmth surge through him at the thought. 

Harry had lived without love for far too long. He had shut it out. He had driven it away. He had cut off his friends and pushed away everyone he cared about. It hadn’t been enough to save them, but it had been enough to destroy him. 

He knew he couldn’t continue to live without it. He could see before him what would happen if he tried. He would become this monster, this half-man. A wretched, lonely creature, unloved and unloving. 

He and Voldemort were not the same, but they could be, if Harry chose a life without love. 

He stared into his rival’s serpentine eyes with a steady gaze. 

“It is not our abilities. It is our choices that show who we really are.” His voice was warm with feeling, his eyes full of fire. 

“Then choose, Harry Potter.” 

A breath of time passed. Harry paused and raised his wand. 

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” The cry was high and rasping, but malice flowed strongly through the words. In a burst of green light, Voldemort crumpled to the ground. 

He lay on his back, his body strangely contorted. Empty eyes stared at the sky. 

The Dark Lord was dead.


	10. The Yellow Face of Doom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so you may have gathered from the previous chapter that there are no Horcruxes in my story. I have nothing against them, in fact, I think they were a great idea. Testament to the genius that is JK.  
> The omission of Horcruxes in this story is merely a matter of convenience. Literary license.

It was over. Done. 

The greatest Dark Wizard of the 20th Century had been defeated. 

Harry had, for the sixth and final time, faced Voldemort and survived. 

So what was he supposed to do now? 

He staggered from the eerily silent muggle house to the neglected garden outside. He felt as if the walls had been suffocating him and, standing in the living room, the chalky body of his greatest enemy had been all that he could see. It was a reminder, a ghastly, ghostly reminder of what he had done. 

Outside, Harry knelt to the ground, his head spinning and his stomach heaving. He gasped for air and then was sick, uncontrollably, into a patch of bushes on his right. 

If only Rita Skeeter could see him now. 

He knew what they would say when he returned. They would praise him, call him the “Savior of the Wizarding World”, “The Boy Who Lived Again”. They would call him a hero. Right now, he felt like no more than a common killer. 

The warmth and hope that had filled him only moments before had faded away in that burst of green light. It was the same green light that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember, always accompanied by his mother’s penetrating, high-pitched scream. 

Sure, he had love. So what? He was still a killer. Was he really any better than Voldemort had been? 

He had just killed a man. An evil, murdering piece of scum, but a man nonetheless. How was he going to live with that? 

“You can’t…” A soft voice whispered from the depths of his mind. It was that small, nagging voice, the one that disturbed him in his darkest hours. Now the voice was stronger, more insistent. Harry fell to his knees, staring at the sky above him. The voice consumed him as he watched the stars without seeing them, tears streaming down his face. 

“You can’t live with this. You shouldn’t. Failure! Killer! Monster! You were supposed to protect them! Cedric… Sirius… Lily… James… Ginny…” 

Each name stabbed like a knife, but the last cut deepest of all. 

“It’s your fault they’re dead! You know it. And what about Tom Riddle? You killed him - you’re no different than he was. You deserve to die like he did!” 

He fell forward, bracing himself on the unforgiving ground. Small stones cut into his palms, but he ignored them. Breathing heavily, he tried to fight the tide that swelled within him. The tide of sorrow, of guilt, of isolation and devastation. 

He was so tired of fighting. 

“You know what you have to do, Harry.” 

“Not here…” The voice was both sickening and captivating. “Let it end where your life began. Do it at Hogwarts. Go home one last time. Then you can join your family. Then you can be free.” 

Yes, he would return to Hogwarts. There was something poetic in that. He would walk the corridors one last time and deliver the news of the Dark Lord’s defeat, then find a way to escape. His final feat of magic. 

He retrieved his Firebolt from the front of the house, put the cloak back on and flew away. He wondered if there was any real point to wearing the cloak, but force of habit bade him put it on nonetheless. He didn’t want his final legacy to be a late night muggle broom sighting. 

As the wind raced past him, making the cloak dance, Harry realised with a surge of sadness that this was probably the last time he would ever ride a broom. He clutched the handle tighter and pulled the broom back towards him. He wanted his final ride to last. He wanted to savour every second. 

As he flew, Harry thought back over his battle, reliving each second. Everything had been a blur in those final moments. 

He had chosen to disarm Voldemort, not to kill him, and somehow, the killing curse Voldemort meant for him had rebounded upon its caster. Sixteen years later, history had repeated itself and the Dark Lord had died. 

Harry had made his choice. Now he had to make another. 

Would he be the boy who lived, or the boy who loved? In his heart he felt sure that he could not be both, for to live in a world without Ginny would be torture. 

What about Ron? Hermione? Maybe he could find a way survive without Ginny if he had them by his side. But no, it could never be. He had lost Ron’s friendship and almost certainly driven away Hermione. How could they forgive him for the way he had behaved? The “Golden Trio”, as they were often called, would never be whole again. 

Harry had had enough of being alone. He knew what he had to do. 

 

 

When Harry arrived, it was just reaching that strange time between morning and night, when the dark has not yet surrendered to the approaching sun. In the unnatural light, Harry made his way to the library, first stopping by the Common Room to grab a quill and several sheets of parchment. He would need three: one for his will, one for the news, one for his final message. 

Sneaking into the library, Harry took his usual seat at the table in the corner. At such an early hour, not even Madame Pince was present. It felt odd to be sitting here, as if he had merely returned to his nightly routine. It was strange to act as if nothing had changed, when his world had been shattered overnight. He shook off the feeling and turned to the task at hand, his heart heavy. 

He wrote his will first. His demands were simple. He asked that Hedwig go to Hermione, whom he knew would take care of her. He left his Firebolt to Ron and his cloak to Dumbledore. To Hagrid, he left his wand. He wasn’t sure whether his friend would be able to use it, but it had to be better than a broken pink umbrella. The map (wherever it was that he had left it) went to Lupin, who was, after all, it’s rightful owner. The remainder of his possessions he left to the Weasley family. Molly and Arthur could breathe easy for once. If anyone deserved his gold, it was the family who had given him a home and made him feel accepted. 

Molly and Arthur. They had lost a daughter. He felt sick at the thought. They had lost her because he had failed to protect her, from Voldemort, from Snape. He had repressed the memory all night. Just thinking about it numbed his heart again. How could his gold make up for their daughter? The Weasleys had trusted him to protect their family. How could he ever atone for his failure? 

The world without her seemed less in every way. The colours were duller, the sounds less clear. The portraits adorning the library walls seemed phoney somehow as they slept and even the heavy, stony walls seemed less solid. He didn’t want to remain in this half-world, this pale mockery of the life he had known. 

There was nothing left for him here. His love was gone, his enemy had been defeated. Ron and Hermione would move on. After all, he hadn’t really been a part of their lives for a long time. 

It was better this way. Better that he slip away with the night time, leaving the world he had saved to the celebrations of the dawn. 

Resolved, he took out a second sheet of paper and wrote his note. It was short and simple. 

 

I’ve made my choice. 

I cannot live without love. 

I am so sorry for the pain I have caused. Thank you for giving me a home, for giving me love and for giving me a life. I have been so happy here. 

My fate fulfilled, my destiny done, I ask only for your forgiveness. 

Harry 

 

His final letter complete, Harry took out his last sheet of parchment. Pulling out his wand, he performed a particularly tricky charm he remembered from the final chapter of his textbook. 

Spell complete, he took out his quill and whispered, “The Great Hall”, picturing it as he spoke. Everyone would be at breakfast by now. He began to write. 

Once he was done, he made his way slowly through the castle, passing snoring portraits, staircases shifting tiredly and bored suits of armour, endlessly at attention. The light was growing stronger now, but it was still dim compared to the dawn he knew was coming. He took his time, stopping by the dormitory to leave his note on his bedside table, where he was sure they would find it. 

Soon enough to matter, but not soon enough that anyone could stop him. 

Leaving through the portrait hole, he startled the Fat Lady. 

“Who’s there?” she demanded, flustered. 

“No-one.” Harry replied, pointedly and a little sadly. Closing the portrait, he slipped away. 

Through corridors and passageways, Harry climbed and climbed. He passed the part of the third floor corridor that had been Fluffy’s home, Dumbledore’s vigilant gargoyle and the Room of Requirement. On and on he went, each step a memory, until he could go no further. He had reached the astronomy tower. 

There was no turning back. 

 

Ron’s slumber, usually so deep that even a set of Filibuster’s Fireworks going off by his head couldn’t wake him, was interrupted that day by the sound of a creaking footstep near the entrance to his dormitory. 

Instantly awake, he lay still, praying that he hadn’t imagined the sound. 

‘Please,’ he thought, ‘let it be Harry.’ 

Every night and every morning since his outburst, Ron had lain in wait for Harry’s return. He skipped breakfasts and often dinners too. He spent all of his free time in the dormitory, certain that eventually his friend would come back. 

He had to see him, had to talk to him. There were things that needed to be said. 

Hermione didn’t seem to mind Ron’s constant absences. She had been so preoccupied, spending all of her time with Ginny whispering in corners. Besides, she was still angry with him. He couldn’t blame her. Thinking back on the things he'd said, he felt sick and ashamed. 

How could he have said those things to Harry? They were best mates and Harry was clearly in pain. Why else would he have shut them out? 

He silenced the traitor voice within him that had begun to list the many other possible reasons. 

They were best mates. That was all that mattered. They were best mates and Ron would wait forever for Harry to return, if that was what it took. 

Another floorboard creaked, closer to his bed this time. He chanced a glance through squinting eyes. There was no-one in sight. 

His heart leapt in his chest. It had to be Harry. 

About to jump out of his bed, he stopped himself. What was he doing? 

It probably wasn’t Harry. If he hadn’t come back in weeks, why would he now? 

And even if it were Harry, what could Ron say to him? How could he help him? How could he apologise? 

The thousands of words and feelings that he had tossed around his mind in the hours spent waiting for Harry suddenly vanished from his brain. His mind was a total blank. 

What on earth could he say to him? How could he begin to convey what he felt? 

He lay motionless, trying desperately to convince himself to move and failing utterly. It was no good. He was a coward. Why he had been put in Gryffindor was an eternal mystery to him. He couldn’t even convince himself to talk to his oldest friend.  
Real courageous, he was. A right gladiator. 

Suddenly he heard a door click shut. It was the dormitory door. Harry had left. Suddenly he could move his legs. He swung them over the edge of the bed and leapt up. He dashed for the door, flung it open and cried into the space beyond, “Harry!”, but only his echoes answered him. 

On an impulse, he dashed back into the dormitory. He had to figure out what Harry had been doing there. Maybe then he could tell where he was going next, chase him down and talk to him. 

He had to find Harry. 

A fresh sheet of parchment on Harry’s bedside table caught his eye. He was certain it hadn’t been there before. 

He ran to the table and grabbed it, eagerly deciphering the scrawling handwriting he knew so well. 

Moments later, he ran for the door, through the Common Room and out the portrait hole, still clad only in tattered, stripy blue pyjamas. He didn’t hesitate as he raced through the corridors, headed for the Great Hall. His face was pale and drawn and his eyes were dark, haunted with fear. 

He had to find Harry. 

 

Hermione felt sick. 

The smells of the breakfast laid before her made her stomach turn. The toast, eggs and sausages that usually woke both her mind and her appetite now smelled somehow chemical and wrong. 

Her blank gaze took in nothing. Her attention was turned within, as words and phrases tumbled through her mind in a painful, unstoppable cycle. Over and over she heard them: 

Harry. 

Voldemort. 

Dead. 

Helpless. 

Since the night before, when Snape had herded them into his office and sent an emergency owl to Dumbledore, she had felt lost and afraid, like she was trapped in her own private nightmare. Ginny had not said a word to her, but her wide eyes and pale face betrayed her fear. 

Hermione knew that, far more than worrying about her own fate, Ginny was afraid for Harry. The thought of their expulsion was nothing compared to the idea of losing him. She wished she could reach out to her, comfort her somehow, but there was nothing she could say, no way to make it better. The same fears that ravaged Ginny’s mind threatened to overwhelm her, too. 

The silence of the dungeon seemed to mock the tumult within her heart. 

They had stayed in the stony cell nearly the entire night, trapped not so much by the dank walls or the presence of their teacher, as by their fears and the horror of what might await them when they ventured out into the world above. Snape spent the night mustering the Order, directing owls and communicating via the Floo network. Finally, as first light broke, he turned to them. 

“There’s nothing more to be done. We do not know where Potter has gone. We cannot find him, cannot save him. All we can do is wait.” 

Anger and frustration flooded her chest, but Hermione remained silent. As much as it killed her to do nothing, she knew that Snape was right. Harry had made his decision. His battle was his own. 

A tear slipped down her cheek as she thought his name. 

How could she have been so stupid? How could she have thought her plan would save him? 

She had destroyed him, broken his heart and shattered his soul. She had brought down the final hope of the Wizarding World. She had lost her best friend. 

Without speaking a word, she left Snape’s office with Ginny and returned to the Great Hall for what she suspected would be their final meal within the castle walls. Breakfast was just beginning. 

As usual, Ron was nowhere to be seen. For once, Hermione was thankful. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t tell him what Harry had done. She couldn’t tell him that it had been her fault. 

As she stared blankly at her empty plate, she felt nausea rise in her throat. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. It was no good – she was going to be sick. Throwing her hand over her mouth, she leapt from the table and raced to the door, feeling hundreds of eyes watching her, some concerned, others puzzled or amused. She had reached the massive wooden doors and was pushing against them desperately, convinced she’d never make it to the bathroom, when sudden screams from behind her made her spin around. 

Something was appearing in the air in front of the high table. Nausea suddenly forgotten, Hermione frowned. 

“What the…?” she half spoke, half whispered, stepping forward unconsciously. 

The image, which had at first appeared to be simply a blood-red gash in the air, continued to grow. It was as if someone had sliced the air with a giant sword, leaving behind gaping, dripping wounds. The school was silent as they watched the vision form. The golden plates of breakfast lay untouched on the tables. 

The slashes gradually came together to form letters. The letters became words, the words became sentences and then, at last, they could all read the message suspended in bloody writing over the teacher’s table. 

 

THE DARK LORD IS DEAD. 

THE PROPHECY HAS BEEN FULFILLED. 

THE WAR IS OVER. 

 

For a long moment no-one moved. There was utter silence as the students absorbed this information. 

Then the school erupted into chaos. Students shouted over one another as exclamations of joy, anger, disbelief and fear exploded across the hall. On the dais, Hermione could see that McGonagall had turned ghostly white and Flitwick had fallen off his chair. 

The noise grew and would have continued, had not the heavy wooden doors to the hall been thrown open with a sudden slam. 

In the doorway stood Albus Dumbledore, majestic in royal blue robes encrusted with silver. 

“Silence.” He said, barely raising his voice. The instruction was unnecessary. The hall had fallen silent the very second he had appeared. 

He strode forward, closer to the writing. She could tell from the expressions of students around her that there were those in the hall who believed he had sent it himself, but Hermione knew better. The message was from Harry. 

At the realisation, her heart soared. He had done it! He had defeated Voldemort! He had survived. She drew an unsteady breath, nearly crying with gratitude and relief. The thoughts that had haunted her all night long began to fade at last. 

Then her rational side took over, the part that always asked the questions she didn’t want to hear. Now it questioned, softly, yet insistently, ‘Why would Harry send that message? Why wouldn’t he come himself?’ 

The bloody message swam before her eyes as the fear returned with a vengeance. 

She turned and barrelled through the doorway where Dumbledore had stood just moments before, heading out into the entrance hall, memories of her performance in that very place the night before still fresh in her mind. 

She made for the Common Room, thinking hard. If Harry were alive, if he were ok, he would surely have gone straight to Dumbledore with the news of his victory. He would never have delivered it like that, unless… 

‘Unless he couldn’t go to Dumbledore.’ Her mind was still functioning rationally, though her body and soul had been consumed by a tide of powerful emotions: guilt, fear, panic, desperation. 

The only reason why Harry would have wanted to avoid his mentor, why he would have delivered news of their salvation from afar, was if he were going to do something dangerous, something mad. Something he knew they would try to prevent. 

Swallowing back the lump that had risen in her throat, she picked up her pace. 

She had to find Harry.


	11. The Justice of the Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 of 11 on the 11th of the 11th. How fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your reviews and for your support. I loved every second of writing this, all those years ago, and I only hope that it has enriched you, made you think, or had an impact upon your life in some way. 
> 
> Please forgive me my digressions from the books and any errors. 
> 
> All credit rightfully belongs to the wonderful J K Rowling, without whom this story would never have been conceived, let alone told. 
> 
> This is the original dedication, which I stand by fully, no matter what changes the years have wrought: 
> 
>  
> 
> for Squish, who loves stories, 
> 
> for Wendy, who loved them too, 
> 
> and for J K Rowling, who wrote Harry’s first (and best!)

The boy in question was currently standing on the low sill of one of the great windows cut into the walls surrounding the astronomy tower. 

Perched on the very edge, he stood with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched, feeling the strong wind rush and push his still body. Being up here was almost like flying. 

It was only right, he thought, that it should end like this. He had always been a natural at flying. In the air he felt safe, he felt free. Now it was time to take his final flight. 

He opened his eyes. Surveying the perfect grounds far below, he felt no fear. He knew that what he was doing was right. 

He had fulfilled his destiny. He had struggled and fought, he had saved the world and done his parents’ memory proud. Now that he was no longer needed, it was time to rest. 

The breezes called to him, inviting him to leap into them, fly and fall amongst them. He took a deep breath and - 

Something held him back. 

What was it? He frowned. Now that the moment had come, the absolute certainty that had driven him thus far wavered. 

But why? There was nothing left to hold him here now. He had lost his family and his friends had forsaken him. Ron and Hermione would never forgive him. He couldn’t ask them to, not after the way he had treated them. 

And Ginny, his Ginny, was gone forever. 

So why couldn’t he jump? 

A voice floated through his mind and Harry flinched, afraid his insidious corruptor had returned to torment him once more. But this was a different voice, a voice Harry knew. 

“Remember, Harry, we must all face the choice between what is right and what is easy.” 

Dumbledore had told him that nearly two years ago, told the entire school. He couldn’t believe that so little time had passed since that dreadful night. It was the night he had helplessly watched the Dark Lord rise, the night he had watched Cedric die. 

 

Thinking back on all that he had lost, Harry knew, without question, that it would be easier to jump. He could lose himself to the peace of sleep. No more hiding, no more fighting, no more grieving. Everything would be easier if he just let go. 

He edged closer to the drop, peering down at the ground waiting below. 

It would be easier, but would it be right? 

Dumbledore’s words ran through his mind again. He sighed heavily, feeling the weight that had temporarily lifted from his shoulders fall once more. He couldn’t do it. 

He might not want the world, but the world wanted him. The world needed him. 

One battle was over, but it would not be the last. It was true that Voldemort was gone, but his followers still roamed free. One day, when they too had gone, others would come to take their place. The world would never be free from evil, Harry knew that, but something in him told him he had to keep fighting anyway. Despite the fact that he could never truly win, he couldn’t give in, couldn’t lay down his sword. 

Nothing would have kept the enemy from triumphing, if it hadn’t been for those who had fought without fail and given their lives. He had survived – how could he throw away what others, what Sirius and Cedric, what his parents, had lost? 

He would stay to protect those he loved. Even if they no longer wanted him, even if they cast him aside, he would never abandon them. If he had to, he would protect them from afar. 

Whatever happened, friendless, homeless, alone and unaided, Harry Potter would continue to fight. It was what he had always done. It was what he would always do. 

He turned to face the inside of the tower and was startled to see two tear-streaked faces watching him from the entrance to the staircase. Their eyes were wide with fear, their faces pale, but Harry could see by their steady stances and clenched fists that they meant to stand strong. 

“Harry.” It was Ron who spoke first. Hermione looked as if it were taking all of her strength just to stay standing. 

Harry said nothing. He couldn’t. He frowned at them, bewildered. What were they doing here? 

Ron swallowed. He knew this would be far harder if Harry continued mute. “Don’t do this, please.” 

They had come to stop him. With surprise, Harry realised he was still standing on the ledge. All his friends could see was a young man about to give up. They could not know what was in his heart, what he had resolved. They could not know that he had chosen life. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry.” This was Hermione, now. The echo of her words the day before brought back to him the image of his love, lying cold and lifeless on the stones below. He grimaced. How close had he come to joining her? 

She misinterpreted his expression, flinching at the pain she saw on his face. “Please!” her voice was ragged now, torn with tears. He could tell she had been crying for a while. “Don’t do this.” 

He had already chosen life – their lives, not his own – over death, but he still had to ask. He had to know. 

“Why not?” his own voice surprised him. It was rough, thick with emotion. He touched a hand to his face and, pulling it away, examined it. His fingers were wet: he had been crying. 

“What?” Ron sounded confused, but a little relieved too. Harry had spoken – maybe they had a chance. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Harry was insistent now. He needed to know. All of the things he had told himself still stood, but he needed to hear someone else say it, needed to know that he was truly needed. “Voldemort is dead. I’ve fulfilled my purpose. What’s left for me now?” 

Both looked truly shocked at this and Hermione clutched her chest as if it hurt her. This was what Harry had been thinking? 

“We are.” Ron sounded angry now, just as he had done in Charms class. His temper was flaring up again. “How can you say you have nothing, when we’re still here?” 

“We love you, Harry. We need you.” Her voice was pleading, desperate. 

“You may not want us, mate. You might hate us, or maybe you think we’re not good enough to be your friends, but that doesn’t change the way we feel. You’re my best mate, Harry. I can’t let you give up like this.” 

Now it was Harry’s turn to be shocked. 

“That’s what you think? Honestly? I thought all that stuff in charms was just… I don’t know… temper? You guys really think I think I’m better than you?” 

Ron shrugged, looking down, but Hermione met Harry’s gaze. 

“We think you’re in pain, Harry, and we want to help.” 

“Ron,” Harry pleaded, “look at me.” 

Slowly, defiantly, the redhead raised his eyes to Harry’s. 

“I don’t think I’m better than you. The reason I shut you out, the reason I drove you away, was because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I was trying to protect you.” 

For a moment, Ron looked puzzled. “Then, why didn’t you just tell us?” 

“Because I knew you’d try to stop me.” 

“But now – Voldemort’s gone, the danger’s over. Why are you…?” 

Harry looked down, ashamed. “I figured, after the way I treated you, you wouldn’t want me to come back.” 

For a moment there was dead silence, then Ron burst out into strained, high-pitched laughter. Hermione glared at him and Harry just looked confused. 

“What? What’s so funny?” 

“You’re an idiot, mate.” Now Harry was glaring at him, too. Ron shook his head at them, drew a deep breath and went on, seriously this time. “You’re my best mate – of course I want you back! But we don’t need you to protect us, Harry. We’ve been in this war as long as you have and we know the risks. We made our choice to fight a long time ago. Anyway, if you really have to protect us, don’t you think it’d be easier if you stayed close to us?” 

“You don’t understand. It’s not just that…” Harry eyes darkened and he turned again to look out at the sky. His friends leapt forward, ready to catch him if he fell, but he didn’t move. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with sorrow. 

“Everyone I love, everyone I try to save… they die.” 

There was silence once again as they waited for Harry to continue. 

“My parents, Cedric, Sirius and now…” He couldn’t go on. “It’s my fault. If it hadn’t been for me, they’d still be here.” 

They looked at him sorrowfully, unsure what to say. 

“I couldn’t let that happen to you, too. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

This time, it was Hermione who broke the silence. 

“Their deaths weren’t your fault, Harry.” 

He looked at her, trying to read her face, but it was inscrutable. 

His gaze returned to the tiled floor of the tower. “Yes, they were. They died to save me.” 

“Exactly.” 

He looked up at her, startled. 

“That was your parents’ legacy, Harry, their choice. It was Sirius’ too. They gave their lives for you. They died so you could live.” 

Her tear-filled eyes held his emerald ones. As she spoke, he stood a little straighter. The voice within, which, up til now, had still been muttering soft seductions in his mind, grew softer and softer. He knew she spoke the truth. 

“From the very beginning, that has been your gift. You are the boy who lived. Please, don’t let that change.” 

He looked at her, confused, his original reason for coming to the tower already forgotten. Then he remembered the long drop behind him, obscured now by the future before him. With Ron and Hermione back in his life, he had even more reason to stay. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Hermione.” 

Their faces lit up and they beamed at him. He smiled back. His cheeks ached, unused to the expression. 

“Well, I can’t leave you now, can I? You guys are my family.” At the word, he remembered why his heart was aching and his face and heart fell as far as the drop from the tower. 

“What is it?” Hermione had seen his expression change and she panicked. They had come so close to losing him – she couldn’t handle it again. 

Harry didn’t hear Hermione. His attention was all on Ron. As he viewed his best friend, the pain of loss washed over him afresh, burning and aching. 

“Ron, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t… I couldn’t save her. I was too late.” His heart was screaming, his face a mask of anguish, but Ron just looked confused. 

“What are you talking about, mate?” 

Harry turned on Hermione, disbelief and horror on his face. 

“He doesn’t know?” 

Ron was staring at Hermione now, apprehensive. “What don’t I know?” he demanded. 

She was quick to protest. “Harry, no! You’ve got it all wrong! I should have told you - it was all a mistake. Ginny’s –” 

“Here.” None of them had heard the soft footsteps ascending the stairs, nor noticed the quiet girl who now stood behind Ron and Hermione. 

Harry’s eyes flew to her and his world came crashing down. 

“No…” he whispered, feeling numb and alive, empty and full of emotion all at once. 

Acting on instinct, he raised his wand and pointed it directly at her heart. Ron and Hermione backed away, fear on their faces. Only Ginny held her ground. 

“It’s a trick. It’s not you. It can’t be. You’re dead.” 

“No, Harry. I’m here. I’m real.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes burned with passion as she looked into the eyes of the man she loved, the man she thought she’d lost. 

His own eyes were manic, fixed on her ghostly face. It couldn’t be her. It was some kind of cruel joke. He would prove it. 

“No. You’re – you’re gone. This is some kind of spell.” 

“It’s me, Harry.” She waited patiently by the entrance, unperturbed by his threat. Her face shone with love. 

“Shut up!” he cried desperately, all self-control gone. “Don’t lie to me! Please! Don’t do this to me!” 

Ron and Hermione could only watch as their friend, who only seconds before had been smiling at last, disintegrated in front them. Harry’s face was contorted with grief and fury, his eyes angry and disbelieving. 

“Finite incantatem!” he cried, shooting a burst of light straight at her. It hit her chest, causing her to stumble backwards. 

Unharmed, she stood once more and looked at him with annoyance. 

“Ouch – that hurt!” she complained. “At least now you know it’s me.” She smiled, all annoyance forgotten, and took a step towards him. Reflexively, he stepped backwards, forgetting where he was. 

Suddenly he was falling, cold wind rushing below him, blue sky bright above. 

Something deep inside him woke with a surge of joy, realising at last that it was true. His love was alive. He was realising too late. 

‘No!’ he thought fiercely, angrily. ‘Not now! I can’t lose her again!’ 

Closing his eyes and concentrating as hard as he could on living, on surviving, he suddenly felt himself slowing, as if the air below him were a cushion. He floated slowly, softly downwards. 

He felt the falling cushion of air come to a gentle halt. It popped and he dropped the few remaining feet to the ground. 

For a second, he lay on the hard ground with his eyes closed, clinging to the beautiful image in his mind. As he fell, he had seen the face of his salvation, and she had smiled at him with her beautiful blue eyes. 

He opened his eyes to see a pair of concerned blue eyes looking down at him. He blinked. Confused for a moment, he wondered how Ginny had reached him so quickly. Then took in the rest of the face and body. Long, dark blue robes, half moon glasses, kindly, crinkled face: it was none other than Albus Dumbledore. 

“Sir?” Harry asked, feeling disoriented. “What are you doing here?” 

The elderly man raised his eyebrows, as if the answer were obvious. “I do believe, Harry, that I am saving your life.” 

Harry blinked several more times, slowly. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but huh?” 

Dumbledore smiled at him kindly. “I happened to see you falling from the Astronomy Tower and thought it might be a wise idea to… shall we say, slow your descent?” 

“Then you saved me? I thought…” Harry’s world still felt a little topsy-turvy. He had been convinced that he had saved himself. A part of him was disappointed. 

“Never mind, my dear boy. There will be time for such thoughts later. You and I have much to discuss. But, for now, there are more pressing matters at hand. You must be on your feet.” The headmaster offered his student a thin, slightly knobbly hand. Harry accepted it, surprised to feel great strength in his grip. 

“Why? What matters, sir?” 

“The most important of all.” When Harry merely stared at him, still puzzled, Dumbledore smiled and waved his arm to gesture behind Harry. “Turn around, Harry.” 

Harry turned to see his salvation running across the grounds towards him. Forgetting Dumbledore, forgetting everything else, he raced towards her. 

“Harry!” she cried, running across the grass towards him at full pelt. She threw herself into his arms, winding him in the process, and circled her arms around his waist. “Are you ok?” 

“I am now.” There was relief in his voice, and just a hint of the bliss warming his heart. It felt right, holding her like this. 

She turned her head to look up at him. “I know you’re a good flyer, but Harry, it doesn’t work so well without a broom!” He chuckled softly as she buried her head into his chest to hide the tears of relief that had overwhelmed her. 

Ron and Hermione were jogging over to them, but neither Harry nor Ginny noticed. In that moment, each was the other’s entire world. 

Harry closed his eyes, savouring the peace he felt for the first time in years. 

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured into her hair, holding her tight. A tear slipped down her cheek as she softly whispered, “I thought I’d lost you too.” 

They pulled apart reluctantly, Ginny hastily brushing her tears away as Ron and Hermione approached, but Harry kept his arm around her waist. After so many months apart, neither could bring themselves to let go of the other completely. 

Ron’s eyes were wide and Hermione looked fragile, as if she’d had quite enough shocks for one day. Her eyes were dry, her tears all used up. Harry noted with surprise that she clung to Ron’s hand tightly as they walked. 

“You right, mate?” Ron asked, his uncertain eyes searching Harry’s for signs of the darkness that had clouded them in recent months. When he found only joy and relief, he smiled, a weight lifting from his heart. 

“Yeah. Thanks, Ron.” Harry met his gaze steadily, his eyes confirming friendship. He knew they would be ok, in time. 

“Talk about falling for someone, eh?” Ron smirked as he looked at his sister, who scowled at him. She couldn’t manage it for long before her face broke out in a smile. As Hermione elbowed Ron, Harry’s eyes twinkled. The green flames within them, extinguished for so long, were alive at last. 

As Harry looked around him at the people he loved the most, he realised how empty his life had been without them. For a moment, sadness overwhelmed him. 

The others went silent as they saw the sorrow in his face. It was Ginny who had the courage to ask. 

“What is it, Harry? What’s wrong?” 

He smiled up at her, his eyes still a little sad. “I was just thinking how much I missed you guys, that’s all. I don’t know how I managed without you. I don’t ever want to have to do that again.” 

Ron raised his eyebrows as he looked at his best mate. Slotting in next to him, he slung his arm around Harry’s shoulder. 

“Again? I’d like to see you try. Don’t think we’re going to let you out of our sights for a moment now we’ve got you back. We’re going to stick to you like glue.” As he spoke, Hermione moved in beside him, arm around his waist. She leaned her head on his shoulder and smiled warmly at Harry. 

“That’s right,” she said, “you’re stuck with us.” 

The redhead on his other side chimed in softly. 

“All of us.” 

Harry laughed as she hugged his waist. Slinging one arm around Ron’s neck and the other around Ginny, he smiled at them all. It was a true smile, full of joy and hope. The others beamed in response. 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

Arms about one another, moving as one, the four headed back up the hill towards the castle.


End file.
